


Physician Heal Thyself

by Brate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brate/pseuds/Brate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who cares for the injured doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Physician Heal Thyself

John stood, hunched over the bathroom sink. He winced as the needle pierced his flesh, and watched as a few drops of blood escaped his wound to drop into the water below. He pulled the thread taut, returning the needle to the skin over his cheekbone.

Peering into the mirror, he moved quickly but carefully, almost guaranteeing he wouldn't have much of a scar. Even with an injured shoulder, John still had the gifted hands of a surgeon. If only he could rid himself of his damned "intermittent tremor." He couldn't be trusted to cut someone open, fix the problem, and stitch them back up. There was always a chance his hand would betray him—kill instead of heal. No matter how unintentional, the result would be the same.

He felt more than saw Sherlock observing him from the door, but for once he made no comment. Goodness knows how long he had been there. Or what he had seen flicker across John's face while he worked, reading his expression as clearly as he could read a book.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Sherlock inquired calmly.

"Yes, it does."

"Why don't you use the lidocaine?"

"It's gone." John spoke before he thought, and then hoped Sherlock wouldn't remember that the numbing agent had been used on him when he'd split his leg open busting through a glass door the month before. Sherlock's flinch told John that his hope was in vain. He continued sewing through the ensuing silence.

"That's a valuable skill," Sherlock commented finally.

"That's precisely the reason I attended medical school."

The edges of Sherlock's mouth quirked up. "Do tell."

John retrieved his scissors from his medical bag balanced on the edge of the sink. He snipped the last suture close to the knot. "I always was a bright young lad, and knew if I worked hard and became a doctor, one day, after chasing a particularly violent car thief who happened to be very skilled with a knife, I would find the ability to stitch myself up to be extremely handy."

"And thus your dream has come true. Congratulations," Sherlock said caustically.

John looked up sharply, realizing his teasing hadn't been accepted in the spirit with which it had been intended. Now it was his turn to observe: Sherlock's lips were pressed tightly together; his hands slowly clenched and unclenched; and most disturbing of all, his eyes kept darting to the newly stitched wound in an obviously uncontrolled manner.

Smiling gently, John said, "This wasn't your fault, Sherlock."

"Of course it wasn't," Sherlock scoffed. "There was no way I could've known."

"No, there wasn't," John agreed.

"But," he went on, "perhaps if I had looked a bit closer, I would've seen that he was holding himself fractionally tilted to the left, as if he was carrying something small and deadly."

"And perhaps if you were Superman, you could've used your x-ray vision to see he was hiding a knife," John offered.

Sherlock looked at John, as if a tree had just sprouted from his forehead. "That's ridiculous."

"Exactly."


End file.
